"Oh—la, la!" he muttered in his quaint way—an exclamation uncomplimentary to myself; for our neighbours across channel reserve the syllables exclusively for their disasters.
We looked down at Lucille, standing amid the chrysanthemums, lending to their pink and white bloom a face as fresh as any of the flowers.
"But it is a child, mon ami," said the Vicomte, with his tolerant smile.
"Yes—I ought to know better, I admit," answered I, rising and attending to the papers on the writing table, and I laughed without feeling very merry. I sat down and began mechanically to work. At all events, my conscience had won this time—and if the Vicomte pressed me to stay, he did so with full knowledge of the danger.
The window was open. The Evil One prompted Lucille at that moment to break into one of those foolish little songs of Provence, and the ink dried on my pen.
STANDING AMID THE CHRYSANTHEMUMS, LENDING TO THEIR PINK AND WHITE BLOOM A FACE AS FRESH AS ANY OF THE FLOWERS.
The Vicomte broke the silence that followed.
"The ladies are going away for the winter months," he said. "They are going to Draguignan, in Var. At all events, stay with me until they return."
"I cannot think why you ever took me."